Thing for publication. I think.

Ethel gave out a weak cough.
"Jim, I'm dying. I'm dying Jim, Do you hear me Jim? I'm dying. I cant breath Jim. I cant breath. You should come and help me Jim. Jim? I'm dying Jim."
"Shut the fuck up you whiny bitch," Jim's voice rang out from the other room, "You can take care of yourself."
Such a tender couple, Jonas thought. I love my job. An obituary reporter, very exciting. It was a great conversation starter. 'What do you do?' she (whoever she was) always said. She was always cute, always available, always smiling with straight white teeth. And she would always look at him differently after he said, 'I write about people dying. I mean, dead people. I write obituaries.' And she would always try to continue, try to make light of it, ask something like 'Anybody interesting die recently?' And Jonas would always answer, 'Nope, no one interesting ever dies. 95% of all deaths happen to old people, who lived horribly boring lives. Pointless from start to stop. But they pay the bills.' And her smile would slip, slide, slither off her face, and Jonas would sit there at the bar again, alone, beer in hand till the next pretty face walked up. Or until he went to work, doing what he did.
Ethel was a customer. She wasn't dead yet. Jonas never did anything freaky, like those guys at THE TIMES. They went back in time, talked to people who were already dead. They had the backing of a multimillion-dollar company who payed for the rights to use all that quantum shit. If you went to them, you could get an exclusive interview with the deceased in an obituary, you could preview and edit to your hearts content. You could even delve into their mind, into their memories. That was the latest feature, memory analysis. Go into the deceased mind, and find the real person hiding beneath. But it cost a shitload, far to much for most people. Most people don't have a couple grand sitting around before the time comes, when the time comes, or after the time comes. So they settle for the next best thing. And that is Jonas. Obits Inc: the poor man's obituary company. "Cant afford a time traveling obituary, no problem," the ads declared, "Just come to Obits Inc. today, and we'll interview you before you die." And then the ad jingle would play. Jonas hated it, he hated his job. He didn't like working there. But it payed the bills, so he sucked it up. The obituary business was an industry. Everyone wanted to be remembered, wanted to leave something behind. And for useless old people, that thing was an obituary which Jonas had to write.
He dimly realized that Ethel was talking, and had been for the past 10 minutes. He nodded for a while, and listened to her most triumphant Bingo victories. God help me, he dimly thought and his head bobbed up and down. I cant take this anymore.
"I'm sorry Ms. Morison, thats all the time we have today." he said, cutting her off, "You can schedule more time if you want, but it'll cost you..."
"But, I thought we had a two hour appointment," she said. "Its only 3:30."
"Yes, Ms. Morrison," Jonas said like he was talking to a three year old, "it is 3:30. Our appointment began at 1:30. So it has been two hours."
"Oh..." Ethel said, looking intently at her shoes, seemingly embarrassed.
"Its a good thing you called us when you did too, Ms. Morrison," Jonas continued, "sounds like you might be experiencing the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. It a bad way to go, you know, no one can get any kind of obituary interview from a brain-dead vegetable."
And with that, he left, smiling. A cruel grin which lasted until he walked out the door to the apartment complex. That's when the man came.
"Mr. Rhodes," the man said. Jonas turned and looked. Black cloak, streamlined sunglasses, spiky black hair. Thats all he needed to see.
The man continued, "I need to speak with you."
"What about?" Jonas said, turning to face Mr. Mysterious.
"Your death,"" said the man, "I work for THE TIMES. I need an interview for your obituary. If you could please come this way."
"What?" Jonas could dimly hear the sound of his own voice. He was going to die. Soon. Most people didn't know it, but THE TIMES sent reporters as close to the death as possible. They wanted to get the best interview. Jonas knew because his company did its best to emulate all of THE TIMES' practices. He was an industry insider, he understood the game. Isn't he lucky.
Jonas suddenly regained control of his lips. He didn't want to die. He wasn't going to die. "No," he said, trying to sound as confident as possible. "Hell no." With a period. If he was going to die soon, he wasn't going to go through another obituary interview.
"Someone has paid us a significant amount of money in the future to get this interview and to write you the best obituary money could buy. I will not disappoint this person." the man from THE TIMES stated. "You will come this way."
And before Jonas could say anything, the man stabbed him with a needle. Everything went fuzzy, and he felt himself fold into the ground.
When he woke up again, he was sitting next to a dumpster in a shirt covered with vomit with a bottle of cheap liquor lying in a brown bag next to his hand. He groaned. "Sonuvabit-" he said. And then he remembered what happened. He groaned again.
"Took you long enough to wake up," said a voice above him. A boy hopped off the dumpster and continued. "You were asleep for a couple of days there. Kept on muttering in your sleep. I tried to give you some drink to make you feel better, but you wouldn't keep it down. Kept of vomiting it up. So I gave up."
"Where am I?" Jonas said in the voice of someone who has taken an involuntary two day nap.
"Wonderland, the rabbit hole, the matrix. It doesn't much matter to me. Where do you want to be?" the boy said with a laugh.
"Um..." Jonas mumbled.
"Here, this one is easier. Whats your name?"
"Jonas."
"Hi Jonas, I'm Iwa Takku. Lets go."
Jonas got up. He wasn't quite sure why; it wasn't the type of thing he normally did. But he got up anyway. He lumbered forward like a zombie, stretching limbs which hadn't moved for two days, pumping blood full of god knows how many drugs through his body.
"Where are we going," he asked.
"To find the fishing hole," Iwa said.
And with that, he ran off. Groaning, Jonas followed.
Out of the alley he went. Following the crazy ass kid like he didn't have a brain. Jesus fucking Christ. He rounded the corner, and something changed. He was no longer in the city, and the vomit on his shirt had disappeared. He blankly looked around. Around him was a busy forest. Birds were chirping, squirrels were playing, deer were calmly walking around and nuzzling. A stream trickled down a slope into a calm forest pool. It was about as picturesque as a National Geographic cover.
"Ahhh," the boy named Iwa said, "Now isn't this better? More natural, more relaxing? Just puts the mind at ease to come here."
Jonas turned to look at Iwa, but didn't answer. He just stared blankly at the little Japanese boy. His outfit had changed as well. He was now wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian shit, with a bowler hat, and he was holding a fishing rod in his left hand. Have I died? Jonas thought. Have I lost my mind? Is this heaven? What the hell sort of heaven is this? Instead of comfortable fluffy white clouds, he gets and eclectic mix between dingy streets and crude wildlife. Instead of chubby little angels with wings, he gets gets a crazy Japanese kid.
"Hey, calm down," said Iwa, reading Jonas's mind, "just come over here. You'll figure it out eventually."
They walked over to the forest pool. As Jonas got closer, he could see that something was in it. A huge writhing mass. Of carp. This temperate forest pool was overflowing with carp. Some were 4 feet long, some were just a couple of inches.
"Its fishing time," Iwa said. And with that, he cast his line into the pool. Moments later, a tiny little thing came out, wagging around on the hook. The carp was almost 2 inches long, barely larger than the hook.
"Ugh." said Iwa. "Such a waste of a cast. But seeing as how it is your first little fishie, I'll show you how this is going to work. Just think of it like practice."
And this Iwa slapped Jonas across the face with the fish.
Things changed again. The forest pool was gone. Jonas and Iwa were standing on a city street, in front of an eerily familiar apartment complex. A man was just walking out of the door in front of Jonas and Iwa. That man was Jonas. A faint smirk lingered on his face as he bounced down the steps.
"Wha..." said the Jonas with Iwa.
"Three, two, one," said Iwa, counting down. Then, right as Iwa hit, "zero," a voice came out of no where. "Mr. Rhodes?" A dark serious tone, one that might belong to a secret service agent or a hit man.
Jonas number 2, the one standing in front of Jonas number 1 and Iwa, turned. And suddenly, the source of the voice was apparent. An Asian man in a dark suit, dark glasses appeared out of thin air. He said in the same serious voice as before, "I need to speak with you."
Jonas number two, still oblivious to the situation unfolding around him, asked, "What about?"
And the man said, "Your death. I work for THE TIMES. I need an interview for your obituary. If you could please come this way."
"Oooooh," said Iwa, "this guy is professional.”
The gears in Jonas number 2's head were spinning. His face was caught between three expressions, unsure of which muscles to twitch next. "What?" he said in a shaky voice. He paused. "No." A little less shaky this time. "Hell no," a hint of bravado was beginning to shine through.
"Someone has paid us a significant amount of money in the future to get this interview and to write you the best obituary money could buy. I will not disappoint this person." the man from THE TIMES stated. "You will come this way."
And with that, he stabbed Jonas number 2 in the leg. The world turned fuzzy, and Jonas number 1 and Iwa were back in the forest. The birds were twittering, the carp were swimming, and Jonas’s face was, yet again, stuck between three expressions.
This defiantly wasn’t heaven.
“Figured it out yet?” Iwa asked. A smile was playing around his face, he was gloating.
“This is the interview,” Jonas flatly stated. He knew what was happening now.
“Good job,” Iwa said, like he was giving a gold star to a third grader. “You’re fast. What did you think of the introduction? You know, we’re always looking for feedback. Did you like the alley, the forest? Do you think we should have told you what was happening from the beginning? I don’t think so. I think this way is more fun. What do you-“
Jonas said, “Are you the man in black?”
“Nope,” said Iwa, smiling. “I’m someone else. I am your guide on this journey, if you will. Your mentor, your friend. I am-“
“You’re a woman, aren’t you?” said Jonas. “Was there anything else the instruction manual told you to say?”
“And what if I am a woman,” said Iwa. “You aren’t very nice.”
“No," Jonas said, "I'm not."
Awkward silence. Filled by the chirping birds and the splashing brook.
“What’s next?” asked Jonas.
“A memory,” said Iwa. “A big one. The bigger they are, the more important. I’m here to find the real you.”
And with that, she stuck her bare hand into the pool and came out with a two-foot carp.
“Here we go again.”

This time it was high school. Biology. The study of life. Mr. Hoister's class.

God, Jonas thought. Home. I haven't thought about this in ages.

Mr. Hoister's booming voice was echoing across the room. His fat lips were preaching the food chain, and his skin had a faint, pinkish tent. Half the class was doodling. The other half was sleeping. There were two lone exceptions: Jonas, sitting in the front, back vertical, diligently copying down the notes as fast as Mr. Hoister could. The other was a girl near the back, in the land of sleeping students. She was semi slouched, resting her head on her hand, but she was listening to Mr. Hoister's monotonous boom.

"You were a geek?" Iwa exclaimed. "A nerd? A sit up front and take notes kind of guy? How the fuck did you end up like you are now? What happened to turn such a promising individual into such a miserable heap of flesh?"

"Stop being bitter about me guessing your sex," Jonas replied. "Im a cynical bastard, and its your job to get to know me. Shut up and listen." And with that he faced the front of the room and Mr. Hoister.

















Jonas opened his eyes, and found himself in a classroom. His 9th grade Biology classroom, to be exact. Mr. Olizer, the most boring man on earth.
“What’s so important about here?” asked the small Japanese boy beside him. “What’s so important about now?”
“I don’t know Iwa,” said Jonas. It certainly didn’t seem that important. It was a classroom covered with pictures of frogs, filled with sleeping students. Mr. Olizer didn’t particularly care, he just droned on in his monotonous voice, oblivious to his dozing class. Two lone eyes remained open. One was little Jonas, furiously writing down every word. The other was a girl slouched in the back, not even bothering to pretend to take notes.
“Nice bowl cut,” Iwa remarked over Mr. Olizer’s voice. “You look like the coolest kid in the class. How did you ever end up the way you are?”
“Shut up,” Jonas said. And surprisingly enough, Iwa shut up.
“There are several characteristics which define life,” Mr Olizer was saying.
“Do we really need to listen to this?” asked Iwa. “I mean, what’s the point?”
Jonas didn’t reply, he was lost in the memory, listening to the ‘eight essential characteristics of life.’
All of a sudden, in the middle of this odd looking moment, the most rare of events occurred. A hand went up, raised by the girl in the back.
Mr. Olizer looked quite taken aback. This was a rare occurrence in 9th grade general Biology. A smile dimly crossed his face; he wanted to savor the moment.
“Mr. Olizer,” she said, “why aren’t viruses alive? I mean, why don’t you call them alive?”
“They don’t have DNA,” Mr. Olizer began, “that’s #4 on our list of essential characteristics of life. If they don’t have a nucleus, they don’t have DNA. They cannot live on they’re own, they rely on other cells for reproduction. They are stupid mechanical inanimate objects.” He smiled. You could practically see the thoughts run across his face. ‘Another mind enlightened, another mission complete.’
“Who says that life must have DNA?” she replied, “who made this criteria? Do bacteria act any differently. They are mechanistic, only a series of self feeding chemical reactions lumped together by natural selection. For that matter, on the issue of reproduction, how are we any differant